Isn't Healthy
by Sano S. Sagara
Summary: "John knows it isn't healthy for him to keep doing this. He hasn't left 221B, and he hasn't gotten a new flatmate." A three part story, where the story can end on either chapter one, two, or three. Dark, slightly heartwrenching, but with a sweet ending. A post Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock's return fic.
1. Ending One

**A/N- SO! This is a bit of a strange story for me, as it started out as "hm, that seems like an ending…. But… that's too goddamn depressing for me to end it on". So, you can read each chapter as the end of the story; chapter one could be the whole story, chapter one plus chapter two could be the whole story, or chapter one plus two plus three could be the whole story. If you want the happy ending, you have to read all three. The first two endings are both "Why Would You DO That?!" 's. **

**Isn't Healthy**

John knows it isn't healthy for him to keep doing this. He hasn't left 221B, and he hasn't gotten a new flatmate. He has cleaned out the fridge, however, but only once the body parts had begun to rot. He hasn't packed away Sherlock's outerwear from where they hang beside the door. He hasn't cleared the clutter from the countertops, nor has he picked the bits of errant clothing from the couch or moved the slippers from outside the bathroom door.

To do so would be admitting that Sherlock was…

He's already said it twice. And saying or thinking something three times will make it real. And John will do anything to keep it from being real.

He still makes two cups of tea. He still sits in his seat and never in Sherlock's spot. He still has the cigarettes hidden in the skull.

He still talks to Sherlock.

John's mind will trick him and he'll hear the violin being tortured from the living area. He'll shout at Sherlock to keep the damn noise down, ask him what the instrument had done to deserve such abuse.

He will hear the doorbell and then Sherlock will shout at it from deep between his ears. Lestrade won't have heard it, and he never comments on how little the flat has changed. He knows that people all have their ways of coping—or lying to themselves. Mrs. Hudson merely clucks and pours out a week's worth of ice cold and partially evaporated cups of tea from the counter.

John will hear Sherlock moan about being bored late at night as he lays awake in his own bed. He'll tell Sherlock to go to sleep and listen with a breaking heart for any kind of response. The Sherlock in his mind offers commentary on the crap tele shows every night. The Sherlock in his mind comments on people he passes on the street.

_Diabetic. Just came into money. Calls his mummy every night. _

But John never sees him; except for when he passes St. Barts. John sees his coat flapping in the wind as his dearest friend plummets to the ground. John sees Sherlock's flailing arms grappling with the air as he falls. Every time John sees St. Barts, he see's Sherlock jum-Fall.

Sees him Fall.

But he doesn't see him anywhere else.

John knows it isn't healthy. Knows that running from the truth isn't the best thing to do, but he can't. help. himself.

So when John arrives home from the surgery and finds Sherlock lounging limp-limbed on the couch, he concludes with little extra thought that he has finally driven himself mad. Playing house alone for three years it only makes sense that his insanity would create him a Sherlock to see, as well as to hear.

But John cannot bear to see his hand pass through Sherlock's image, so he doesn't touch him. He doesn't run to Sherlock and collapse across the man's body to weep. He doesn't give in to the brief flare of urge to clock the man across his face.

John just makes his normal two cups of tea.

**A/N- head to chapter two!**


	2. Ending Two

John watches as Sherlock jerks awake when he sets the second mug of tea next to his head. Bleary, red rimmed grey eyes look at him in momentary confusion but relax when John sits across from his Sherlock-ghost, sipping his own steaming mug of tea.

John wants to laugh. Wants to cry. He can hear Sherlock breathing, hear the man's clothing slide against the couch. His brain even supplied the detective's own unique scent; one of cologne and soap and formaldehyde. John breathed it in like he was dying—which, he supposed, he might be. He knew that as soon as the hallucination evaporated, John would finally break completely. He wanted to savor it, to bask in it.

He watched as Sherlock's eyes flew wide open when the silent tears overflowed and cascaded down John's face. His imaginary Sherlock looked almost crushed when he pulled away from the long fingered, reaching hand. John doesn't want the illusion to end just yet. The tea trembles in John's quaking hands and he sets the cup down.

"John?" Sherlock's voice has never been so hesitant in his mind before. John can almost will himself to believe he is actually hearing it with his ears.

John decides to chance the spell.

"Why are you here?"

The Sherlock-ghost on his couch flinches as if John's words physically struck him.

"I came for you, John," He whispers, and suddenly, John understands.

"Hold on Sherlock," John stands, lurching upright and walking quickly into his room. He steels himself, mildly surprised at how easy this all was.

When he returned to his seat across from Sherlock, John held his gun in his hands. Sherlock froze, staring at him.

"Okay Sherlock, I'm ready," John placed the barrel at his temple, finger clicking the safety off, "I… I love you Sherlock. Thanks for coming back for me,"

John closes his eyes and pulls the trigger.

**A/N-Read chapter three for some happiness! **


	3. Final Ending, Ending Three

The report of the handgun was so loud it took John long moments to realize Sherlock was shouting at him, hands gripping his shoulders white-knuckle tight.

"That didn't hurt nearly as much as the last time I got shot," John murmured, watching in fascination as Sherlock struggled to form words. The hands on his shoulders shook him roughly and John lets his head flop forward,

"I'm so glad I'm dead Sherlock. I missed you so much," John's tongue felt too heavy, but the rest of his body was strangely light. This would be wonderful if his angel of death would just stop shouting at him. Why was Sherlock so mad? He was the one who had finally come to collect him. Come finally to bring John to the other side with him.

Why were tears raining down Sherlock's face?

"For god's sake John! What were you doing?" Sherlock was still shrieking at him, fingernails biting through his thick jumper and the pain was beginning to register in John's relief clouded mind.

Pain?

"Why? What were you thinking? Why would you try to kill yourself?!" Sherlock was screaming, weeping, "Why would you say you loved me and kill yourself before I have a chance to say it back?!"

John didn't, wouldn't understand. He was dead now, with Sherlock—back where he belonged. Why was Sherlock so mad?

"You finally came to get me. You always leave me behind, but you never forget to come back for me. Why did it take so long Sherlock? Why didn't you take me with you? But don't you see? We're both dead now!" John smiled, huge and happy for the first time in three years.

"You're not dead John!" Sherlock shouted.

"Of course I am. You came to get me and I shot myself,"

Really, Sherlock was a bit dull in death.

Dull? Sherlock could never be dull.

John's eyes widened and he gasped, adrenaline flooding his body as he finally realized the truth.

Sherlock was alive.

And John had almost just killed himself.

"Sherlock!" John threw himself against that wonderfully warm, solid, real body, "Sherlock you're alive! I knew it!"

"Did you?! Could have bloody well fooled me John!"

John finally began to laugh—tears coursing down his cheeks, and he buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder.

"I love you, Sherlock!" John gasped, his arms tight around his consulting detective, "Oh, god, I love you Sherlock,"

Sherlock cried too, still terrified by the sight of that gun pressed to John's head. Sherlock had shoved the barrel away, and the shot had buried itself deep into the wall. He had almost lost John again.

Frantic hammering at the door announced Mrs. Hudson's arrival, and when she burst into the room, the first thing she saw was John collapsed against Sherlock, clutching the taller man like a lifeline sobbing three years worth of tears he'd held back.

Sherlock looked over John's head, eyes watering as well, and smiled at her,

"Hello Mrs. Hudson. I'm back,"

Hours later, once everyone had come and cried and yelled, once he and John were alone again, once John had regained his breath and his footing and had delivered a singularly satisfying right hook across Sherlock's face, once two halves of the same whole were once again seated in front of the tele clutching strong cups of tea like nothing had changed Sherlock turned to John,

"I love you too, John,"

And everything changed.

**A/N- Well! Finally! It ended up happy…ish. Happy. That's a happy ending, right? **

**And again, remember, each chapter counts as a 'could have ended here' because that's how it was written ^_^ I just couldn't bear to end it so sadly the other two chapters. **


End file.
